Quantifiable Chances
by sigiltristan
Summary: Samuel 'Sam' Wilson was not a fan of death, and when he's presented with another chance to pursue a brilliant woman, he grasps at it. Nothing would separate them again, but with his nose bleeding often, and foreign, angry memories surfacing, he struggles with the humanity he held, and the unknown blood lust that courses his veins.


**Quantifiable Chances**

 **Chapter 1**

 **A/N: I don't like putting author's notes at the start of a story, but I felt I should maybe explain why this is only being uploaded now. I wrote this almost 5 years ago, and only recently rediscovered it on an old hard drive. I reviewed all of it, correcting grammar, spelling, plot-holes, etc. until I felt it was good _enough_. It's not perfect, nor do I want it to be. Perhaps you find enjoyment of it, as I did re-reading it.**

* * *

He did not much care for death, if he were being honest with himself. He had tried justifying the darkness all around him for what felt like...decades? Maybe centuries. He had just grown bored...for the most part. How would the mind fair in this void? Would he eventually go insane? Would the slowly encroaching loneliness morph into an ever-expansive void within himself, mirroring his current surroundings?

A smile crossed his face, his parents had always said he had a habit of overthinking things...Madam Lutece had as well. The thought of her caused his brow to deepen, his eyes to fall. It was his fault she was dead, his own carelessness not kept in check. The guilt ripped at his insides. She had so many more plans, so many ideas and theories, and now...it was just gone. Thrown into the void as he was.

He wanted to scream, to apologize, to tell her one last time how fantastic her mind was.

His emotions thundered, he had never felt quite as sorrowful as he did now. Not when his mother died, his father following soon, his family practically alienating him still after that.

Truly, he realized now, that hell was no burning pit, but eternal darkness, where one's own mind created the tortures.

He fucking hated being dead, if he were being honest.

A sensation grasped at him, as if a light breeze were tugging at him, before he felt like he was dying again, much more painfully this time. His insides wrenched and turned, feeling as if a large hand had grabbed his organs and were trying their best to make him pop. The last thing he remembered before the darkness enveloped his consciousness was Rosalind Lutece's smile, and the smell of salt water.

The first thing that crossed his mind, as the tendrils of consciousness reached behind his eyes, was not remembering his mouth ever tasting quite as horrific. The thought right there after, however, was that he couldn't remember anything at all really. His muscles ached something terrible as he maneuvered himself onto his elbows, his head now lulling down, he took a deep breath. Holy _shit_ things were manifest once more, the sound of the ocean lulling in his ears, the creaking of wood under him.

He focused on the sounds and fresh air in his lungs in an attempt to stop his head from swimming, trying to ascertain any memories he had. His name was Samuel Wilson, he was born in 1883, he was a scientist working under Rosalind Lutece, the only apprentice she cared to take on. What else was there to find? Many of his memories seemed...grainier, rather than fuzzy.

He took another ragged breath, pushing himself onto his knees, his muscles screaming at the exertion.

He hadn't opened his eyes yet, for fear of gravity and sound being mere illusions. The seemingly early morning sun felt better than he had ever remembered. A last deep breath had him slowly opening his eyes, adjusting them to the light. He was on a small pier, a large, stark white lighthouse in front of him, its red bands bright and new.

This...this was one of the lighthouses used by pilgrims, another part in the Prophet's religious machine, the symbolism of the 'Ascension' being much too blatant to even attempt to miss. He remembered despising the man, although the burning hatred he felt now was almost out of place, he'd never allowed himself to such a point, always being a pacifist.

As his eyes traced the lighthouse, he remembered testing the first finished mechanisms, some of the first evidence of his existence. The thought caused his mind to buzz, a sharp throb behind his left eye caused him to nearly double over in pain, a hiss escaping his lips. What was that, and why was his lip wet? No answer came to his first question, the second he'd answered himself; his fingers stained with blood as he pulled them back from his face.

He'd never had a nose-bleed before...this was quite alarming. As he searched his pockets for a handkerchief, he took in his clothing. It wasn't quite what he remembered ever wearing, a fine three-piece suit, yet everything was black. The shirt and tucked in tie, his out of place military boots, even his socks. He much preferred lighter colors, feeling as if darker colors would attract more attention than he wanted. The suit sat perfectly on him, his body looking more muscular than he last remembered, being a scientist had not warranted much physical activity.

As he lifted up the left side to search the interior of his jacket, he felt his blood freeze and his head spin...Why did he have a gun? A blued revolver glinted in the low sunlight, its even darker handle enticing him to grab it, to wield it. As his vision blurred once more, and more blood came from his nose, he renewed his search, ignoring the firearm burning a hole in his side. Lifting the right side, he found five revolver quick-loaders stacked on top of each other, ready to be used at a moment's notice.

His breath hitched in his throat as he saw a memory of himself pulling the revolver, swiftly killing three people via ventilated skulls and incapacitating another, his stomach a gory mess. The man was screaming, and sobbing...repeating something over and over; but there was no sound as the man held his hands up, before his eyes widened and his forehead split open. Six smoking casings fell out of their chambers, quickly replaced by six new cartridges.

Wrenching to the left, he vomited off the side of the pier...what the fuck was going on. Blood from his lip mingled with the last of his stomach acid as it was consumed by the sea below, before he rolled onto his side, trying to stop his organs from evacuating his body too. As he had hoped, his suit did come with a handkerchief, haphazardly stuffed deeply into his left back pocket.

Still laying on his side, he wiped at his face, hoping to rid himself of as much blood as possible. He elected to ignore the two objects strapped to his lower back, his instincts telling him they were knives.

With a weary sigh, he stood again, focusing on just walking towards the light house, it seemed his memories were too confusing at the moment to even try to think. As he reached the stairs, he had a faint memory of opening that exact door, slamming it open with force, malicious intent on his mind.

He shook his head, clearing the thought. His handkerchief was already ruined as it was. He approached the door slowly, hoping for no more memories popping up, and rapped his knuckles against it, a muffled voice saying something on the other side.

As he heard steps nearing the door, he squared his shoulders, he may not have been knowing what was going on, but he could at least act like he did. An old man answered the door, a white, scruffy beard covering most of his face, a knit hat practically covering the rest.

"Yes?"

He was rather taken aback by the word. Was there some other reason he would be standing in front of this door, in the middle of the _fucking ocean_? The thought felt alien in his mind, he had never much been one for using such crude language.

"Hello, sir. I've come today-" Why was he here? Where was here? _When_ was here? He realized he knew less than fucking nothing. He remembered helping with a launching system...the word "Ascension" hit him once more as he discovered he had abruptly stopped talking.

"I am here to ascend, sir."

The man regarded him with a harsh eye, his breath held as he surveyed Samuel like a hawk observing a meal. Samuel did not feel threatened or scared in the slightest at the man's probable fear tactic, the revolver at his side whispering his name, although reassuring, made him wary of his own memories once more.

"On which business?"

Had simply wanting ascension not been enough, for god's sake. He felt a hand twitching towards his knives, not understanding why he was reacting so, he forced his hand back.

"I seek the Scientist Lutece."

The man grunted, before slowly stepping out of the way, allowing Sam access. The first thing he identified was a large bowl of water, an embroidered panel hung above it. "Of Thy Sins Shall I Wash Thee." He repeated, the message seemingly taunting his state.

"Aye, the Good Lord up above has gifted to us all a chance to wash away our sins, lest we be dragged to the depths of depravity with the coloreds and Irish."

The sentence didn't sit right with Sam... something about how he had said...oh. Prejudice had always been a subject he steered clear from, all humans deserving at least some semblance of equality and respect. He had forgotten how Comstock's followers generally tended not to give either of those willingly, choosing to turn a blind eye to the world they perceived as below them. He strode forward, quickly washing his hands he'd been able to keep hidden till now, his face following shortly thereafter.

As he dried himself, he noticed the man still standing there. He observed more than he normally would, the tenseness in the man's folded arms, his neck bulging slightly, his feet placed so that he can charge if he needed to.

"Thank you. How may I continue?"

The man seemed to consider him again, no doubt questioning the blood that now stained the bowl, before moving towards the stairs.

"Follow me lad, I'll take you."

He glanced to the bowl, following the man's eyes, and stammered an excuse concerning a terrible nosebleed before making to follow. The man didn't even miss a beat at his excuse, keeping his pace up the stairs, all the way to the top. Samuel kept his eyes on the man, only glancing away from the man to a nearby calendar and map. He recognized that route, it was one Madam Lutece had asked his opinion in, yet the calendar drew his attention more than anything else. It was 1899...he was in 1899...and technically 16 years old. _What?!_ He forced his eyes back to the other man, him being more than halfway up the next set of stairs before Sam reacted and caught up.

As they reached the top of the stairs, the older man placed a cigarette in his mouth, offering Sam one, which he had happily accepted. Whether he liked them, or if his false memories fooled him, he just desperately needed something to distract him. He had felt a small square earlier in his left jacket interior pocket, assuming it to be a lighter, before he could reach for it though, he had a box of matches offered to him. Accepting this, he lit his cigarette as if second nature, the spent match thrown off the side of the lighthouse to frothing waters below.

"I never got your name, son."

He nearly snorted at the man's directness, the tenseness had still not left the man, and he wasn't planning on relaxing anytime soon either.

"Samuel Wilson, sir. If I may ask yours?"

The man exhaled a puff of smoke, before inhaling from the stark-white stick once more.

"John Crest, a pleasure." His gravelly voice and dismissive tone making Sam think it was anything but.

As the man, John, took a final pull from his cigarette, he moved towards the three ornate bells hanging across from Sam, ringing the furthest left once, the second twice, and the last twice. A series of foghorn's followed this, attempting to recreate the tune, before the ornate gate the bells were blocking swung open; the bells folding upwards, out of the way. As John had rung the bells, Sam had covertly approached, as if led unwillingly by his body.

The sound of John's body crunching on the outcroppings below roused Sam, taking stock of what was around him. There was a red barber's chair where there was a lantern room seconds ago, John had disappeared, and in his hand was a bloody knife. _Bloody knife?!_

Sam dropped the blade as if it were made from pure fire, tripping and scurrying back until his back met a wall, lines of blood drawn with his fingertips followed him to the wall. What had he done...what the _fuck_ had he done? He was smoking and then he was next to the man, the man looked pained, and then he was gone...over the railing.

Samuel struggled onto his knees, clasping onto the wall and railings his back was just against, tempted to look over the edge, his lead-lined stomach stopping his arms from hoisting him up. A small voice in his head, calmer, and much more commanding than the others, was justifying his actions as they registered in his mind. ' _He would have given you away as soon as you landed, do not let his death sway your course.'_ The voice was too self-assured for his liking, he'd rarely had any thoughts without doubts, the doubts often being useful, often times debilitating.

He focused on the new voice, his thoughts calming as its composed instructions were taken in.

' _Retrieve the knife, clean yourself, prepare for ascension. You have questions unanswered, they do not lie here.'_

The alien voice rather reminded him of Madam Lutece's generally calm demeanor, but it did leave him wondering if, like Rosalind, it had different sides...an empathetical side, maybe? He'd just murdered somebody, after all. He took solace in his body's lack of stomach acid left, the man's ragged corpse below, his appendages at odd angles, causing Samuel to gag.

He tore himself away from the railing, quickly grabbing the knife and bounding down the steps to the very bottom, tossing the knife into the basin near the entrance. A shuddering breath racked his body as he glanced up, the embroidery mocking him still; this time his sins felt harder to scrub off, the blood coming off easily enough though.

' _Ascend. Find Lutece. She will know the next steps. Ensure your hands are properly cleaned.'_

He glanced down at his hands as the voice finished, having missed spots of blood between his fingers, he scrubbed at his hands again, the skin burning by now.

' _Scrub as you might, the blood will not leave your mind. Embrace what will become of you, fighting it might just prove to be your next demise.'_

His jaw set as he struggled to holster the now clean knife, the 6-inch blade travelling a moment before a satisfying click informed him that the knife's guard had met scabbard. The dark handles were comfortable in his hand, the thin, medieval-reminiscent stiletto in its entirety giving him pause before releasing it. Why was killing that man so easily forgotten? So easily dealt with? He did not know, and the alien voice had not replied, so he did what was logical, he cleaned.

Thirty minutes later had the lighthouse cleaned to the point that there was no evidence of a recent occupant, or murder. His task done, he sat down on the dead man's bed on the second floor...he supposed it was vacant now. There was a mirror mounted to the wall to his left and he took his appearance in, the brown eyes that met him seemed darker than he remembered, his hair was longer, messier, darker too. A sigh accompanied a pained smirk, just what was he doing? Why was he procrastinating like this?

The voice did not reply to him this time either, urging him on. He had thrown the basin's water out into the ocean, hoping the lighthouse left no traces, as he grabbed a new pack of cigarettes on his way to the roof. Why did he enjoy these abhorrent things now?

As he reached the top, he lit another cigarette, deep breaths coinciding with his eyes roaming the skies. He saw the glint of Columbia, she was close, and Madam Lutece might have been waiting for him.

' _Do not poison your mind with hope. Ascend, avoid rebirth, and keep your head low. Madam Lutece may not be waiting for you, but she may be waiting none the less. Make haste, lest a chance is lost.'_

He was sitting on the chair now, the bonds around his extremities being called 'safeguards' rather preposterous, the feminine voice barely more than static in his ears. The sea moved lower, clouds snatching past the porthole, before a venerable utopia appeared before him. Columbia, on the surface at least, looked like heaven on Earth.

As his pod lowered itself down a tunnel, he breathed deeply. He was technically 16, yet felt his previous age more so...he had died at 26. John's blood from earlier still clung to his hands, and no water could wash that away...How old was John Crest? Would he be given another chance?

His journey stopped on a raised dais in what appeared to be a temple, soft candles floating on serene waters and covering the floor, their reflections an almost perfect still image. He was on Columbia once more. His chest thundered as his bonds released and the panel in front of him slid open, leaving sunlight to stream onto his face.

' _We have ascended. Leave this place, find Madam Lutece. She will have answers.'_

He extricated himself from the pod, and stood gob smacked for a moment. A large stained-glass mural of Comstock, pointing towards Columbia standing over a group of people, a banner above it, inscribed "And the Prophet shall lead the people to the New Eden". He waded into the ankle-height water whilst shaking his head, turning left and continuing onward, he was fully willing to ignore the banner above the archway that welcomed him, a large statue of Comstock nestled in a pillar down a flight of stairs; a multitude of candles surrounding it.

As he rounded it, a pilgrim in white robes glanced up from his prayer, a wary look passing his eyes. Sam continued past the man, ignoring everything but the rhythm of his feet down the next set of stairs.

He hadn't much cared for the wariness in the man's eyes. He didn't blame the him though, he did resemble a funeral goer, his unruly hair and hard face hinting at the him being cause for a funeral. As the spiral staircase evened out into a plateau, before dropping with more stairs, he realized he had no manner to enter the city without them attempting to baptize him.

' _We are here for scientific reasons. Inform them that we have been invited for such, and would not be partaking on this day.'_

He doubted the depth of the plan, Preacher Witting was a crazed zealot, who would as soon report you to the Founders for not doing what he wants than nearly drown you.

The knives at his back were burning at his skin, his revolver nearly as unbearable. His nose started bleeding again as he reached the bottom of the steps into the main hall, the water now barely at his knees. He used the water surrounding him to quickly wash it away, wiping off his face and hands again; his handkerchief was rather soiled by this point.

By now, The Preacher could have been talking in tongues for all Samuel cared, his heart was beating in his ears, making focusing hard. He gingerly passed through the throng of people, the Preacher stopping mid-sentence, quickly turning to him, before exclaiming, "Is it someone new? Somebody from the Sodom below? Newly come to Columbia to be washed clean, before our Prophet, our Founders, and our Lord?"

Samuel forced himself to calm down, approaching the man, "No, father. Somebody new maybe, but I seek no forgiveness on this day, simply access to the Scientist Lutece."

The man's lips pulled up in, at least to him, disgust. "Another man of science to join our flock? Being reborn is the only way into the city."

"Be that as it may, Father, I require entry into the city, and this is the only way I was informed of. If I could spare you this, I would, but being forgiven is something I shall decide upon, when I am ready."

Preacher Witting regarded him with a cold glare, before he seemed to relent slightly, suddenly wholly stepping out of Sam's way. "When you feel forgiveness awaits you, find me, my child."

Sam walked past the man, placing a hand on his shoulder, reveling in a slight flinch at his touch.

"I will do so, until then."

He waded down the tunnel, following the trails of sunlight and murmurs of prayer at the end of it, hopes of dry land lulling in his mind. As he exited the tunnel, he found a rather confused pilgrim glancing between him and the tunnel's entrance, whom he elected to ignore, as he headed for the edge of the final pool he now found himself in; stairs awaiting his arrival.

As he exited, he lightly stomped his feet, hoping to dislodge or rid most of the water, not willing to take his boots off as he climbed the stairs steadily. A trail led him through the rest of the complex, prayers being said all around him. His heart was still beating in his throat as he approached the final door between him and a city he had perhaps loved at some time, a woman he had marveled at.

' _Find Rosalind.'_

The finality from the alien voice calmed him somewhat, it's composure through all this bothering and anchoring him, yet he had followed all of its instructions without any pause. It seemed to, if nothing else, still be an element of himself, so why would he ignore it?

As he pushed the doors open, his breath hitched in his throat once more. The cobbled streets, the people milling about in their soft colors, the streets filled with aromas, sounds, tastes, emotions. Crates swam by on the Sky-Lines, and his building docked with a small island, Comstock's golden image wielding a saber in the center, more of Columbia floating farther away than he wanted. Columbia was his to grasp once more, and he would not allow lethargy to claim Rosalind's or his lives again.

There was a loud metal clang as the church or temple's dock made contact with the island, signaling to him safe passage across the skies...or away from this church in anyway, which was good enough for him. His head was hung low so as to not draw attention as he glided down the streets, his first destination was Emporia itself, the Lutece Labs after.

He found himself thankful for the ideal conditions for his travel. The morning-sun shone without harshness, warming his back as he walked, ignoring some glances he had gotten. Describing him as a sore thumb would be rather trivial, he stood slightly more than a head above most of the people surrounding him, his bulk, expensive suit, and the aforementioned dark colors drawing more than a few whispers.

Rounding a corner to enter the Grand Central Depot, he swore he heard whispers of admiration aimed at him, his eyes catching an attractive brunette raking her eyes over him causing him to accelerate his pace, wishing he was able to hide himself from everybody's eyes as heat crawled up his neck and cheeks. He never much cared for relationships, his association with Lutece more than sated any urges for social interactions, always an interesting conversation to be had. He found himself growing weary as he exited the Depot, hoping he was still as clandestine as could be hoped for, his social skills barely more than abhorrent.

How was he going to explain all of this to Madam Lutece? 'Hi, terribly sorry to bother you, but I know you. Or at least I knew you, before I fucked up and killed at least the two of us. Robert Lutece, your exact sibling from another universe, and Comstock both probably died too. Anyway, I died, spent a seeming eternity in darkness, before I woke up in front of a lighthouse, committed a murder, and finding myself in front of your door. Could I come in?'

The thought made him laugh, a quiet, sardonic growl escaping his throat. For all he knew, Rosalind would accept it, before having him admitted to an asylum.

His hands trembled slightly as another cigarette found its way in between his lips, a flick from his lighter had a bright ember burning lazily on the end of the stick, every deep breath calming him.

He was in front of the Lutece Labs now, the butt of his cigarette crushed before he placed it back into its origin. It would not do to litter in front of Madam Lutece's abode. As his eyes scanned the door, he noticed something off about the whole situation. The door wasn't closed entirely, a small slit in it causing his hair to stand on end, heavy scrape marks on the lock and door...boot prints near the locks. Glancing around he noticed that this area was somewhat quieter than the rest of the street...foreboding, perhaps?

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open, his stomach feeling heavy again at the sight of a ravaged lobby, a girl cowering in the far-right corner, trembling, her eyes darting around the room quickly. He approached her slowly, his palms upturned to show her he wasn't a threat. She gave him a cursory glance, trembling more at his approaching figure, before her eyes darted around again.

"Ma'am?" He didn't recognize her, no name plates on the receptionist table or her attire. "Are you alright? Where is Madam Lutece?"

He crouched down in front of her, she was disheveled, likely from being handled roughly by whoever would attack a home of science. Other than her wild eyes, unruly blonde hair, and trembling frame, she didn't look too badly off, a small bruise on her visible forearm.

She looked into his eyes, the crazed look bringing memories to the fore-front of his mind, people just before dying, or after witnessing somebody else dying. Why was it always their heads that exploded? Did these memories not have people being shot normally?

A droplet of blood dripped from his upper lip, landing on the woman's hand. She stared at it for but a moment before she seemed to actually calm down, much to Sam's surprise.

He wiped the blood off with his hands, she didn't retract from his touch. "Th-they took her to the main ch-chambers, s-screaming about fortunes...or something."

He thanked her, bidding her to stay right there, not that she had intentions of moving.

As he walked through the lobby, he approached the doors to the home itself, where another set of doors separated it from the main experiment chambers. The revolver was in his hand now, it's dark handles sat snug in his fist, a feeling of power surged through his spine, before he opened the door slowly.

Two men were animatedly talking just beyond the door, their attentions more on each other than their surroundings. The revolver was replaced by knives, the memory of John Crest's pained face flashing before his eyes as he adjusted them to sit comfortably for stabbing.

' _Focus now, we have but one chance. Aim for the neck or head, rend them incapable of giving any alarm. Madam Lutece awaits our arrival.'_

He took a few shallow breaths, steeling himself. Their lives for Rosalind's didn't seem unfair at all.

He shoved the door open, a dagger driven into one's skull, as the other turned to face him. The other knife slid through the man's throat; tendons, muscle, and bone parting like butter before a red-hot blade. Sam stared deep into the man's eyes, surprise and fear registered in them as they lost a lively sheen, his blood spurting down the blade, a particularly harsh spasm covering Sam's face with blood, much to his dismay.

As he retrieved both blades, he glanced at both corpses. No guilt registered, no flicker of human empathy for these deceased souls. Rosalind was waiting, and in danger.

He approached the final entrance, stairs passing his right, a desk in a hovel below the next floor. The occupants of the next room hadn't noticed him yet, most of their attention on the Contraption and Rosalind. The revolver once more in his hands, fresh blood from his nose joining the drying blood covering most of his face, intense thoughts alarmingly loud in his mind. He listened intently as the apparent leader raised his gruff voice.

"Do what you must, scientist! I do not care how, but we will have what we want!"

There were five...he could maybe hit three of them under normal circumstances, but without knowing their experience, reactions...he felt dread clawing at his insides. If he failed, Madam Lutece would surely die again, and likely more painfully this time.

' _Calm your mind and steel your nerves. Killing will come to you as wind comes to the mountains, you will wrap yourself in its embrace, accepting it as your gift to give, or curse to deliver. Calm yourself, step through the door, and let your instincts guide your hands.'_

That fucking voice again. He heard Rosalind reply to the man, her voice had an undertone of anxiousness, or fear. Whatever it was, it caused his blood to nearly boil, nobody threatened Rosalind Lutece.

He stepped through the open doorway, his vision swimming with a graininess to it, his head was pounding. His right arm rose of its own accord, a grin forming on his face. "Kill" escaped his mouth in a hiss, blood staining his teeth an eerie red. A loud pop had a man falling, most of his neck disappearing at once, another pop causing another corpse to meet the ground.

He felt a sting throughout his body as the next two bodies joined their comrades on the floor, not much left of their skulls, a feeling of elation as one man was left. Another, singular pop sounded and the man buckled, his bleeding left thigh not able to support his weight, both of his hands clinging to his leg for dear life.

Samuel slowly approached the man whilst holstering his gun, Rosalind's eyes were wide, confused, fearful. Grabbing the man by the hair, causing him to loosen his grip on his leg trying to reduce the pain emanating from his scalp, Sam dragged him out of the door he entered, glancing over his shoulder at Rosalind's still form, her eyes following every step.

"Stay there, I will return shortly to ensure no harm has befallen you."

Answers. He wanted answers. And this man was going to give them to him, if they were the last words that left his mouth. He roughly threw the man into a cabinet in the hall, his left leg still bleeding, a sweaty pallor overtaken his face.

The man vacantly stared at him, his eyes betraying his fear to Sam's mind, that calm voice reassuring him, urging him on.

"What's your name?", the man's voice was surprisingly collected, considering his blood was pooling somewhat quickly.

' _He is biding time, distracting you. He will bleed longer before consciousness slips him. Strike him. Enquire of his employers.'_

Sam's brow twitched, before he stepped forward and slapped the man, the action startling the man rather somewhat.

"What the fuck?" Another harsh slap met this, before his shirt's collar was grabbed into a handful and a fist collided with his face, he estimated, nine times; he had lost consciousness after two, but it felt like nine when another slap roused him.

As he flailed at the cabinet, an attempt at getting up, he felt a fist collide with his jaw again. A dark thought accompanied lead filling his stomach. Gasping and retching at the same time, he vomited as he was painfully pulled up by his hair. Holy shit he was going to die. He was going to die and he knew it. He silently prayed to God when he was spun around, his eyes meeting dark orbs in the dim electrical light, he knew the Devil walked the streets of Columbia.

"Who employed you?" Sam's voice was calm, but burned his throat, he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep for a year, to try to forget the atrocities he had just committed against these men, the fear he had purposefully inflicted upon another human being.

The man, trembling, a smell of urine emanating from him, stammered a simple "What? Emp-ploy?"

Sam narrowed his eyes at the man, somewhat confused. "Nobody employed you? You acted of your own free will?"

A muttered "Yes" frustrated Sam beyond measure, he shook the man like a ragdoll, surprised at the ease he had been lofting this weak man with. "Why? What did you want? Who gave you the information you needed for this?"

"We wanted f-fortune, same as e'rybody else lad. A man...in-in Finkton, at the first bar in Shantytown, he told us what we wanted to know! H-he said Lutece could get us anything we wanted! With-with that machine of hers, we just had to reach out and take it! But she just had to be a stubborn bit-" His sentence cut off as a hand filled his peripheral vision before all sound in his left ear ceased to be, his eyes filling with stars and blots of various colors.

"I will not stand for insults aimed at Madam Lutece. What is this man's name, occupation, and described as?"

The petrified man in Sam's grip just stared at him again, seemingly debating with himself, much to Sam's ire.

Sam ground out, "Whether you tell me or not, I will still find them. Not telling me comes with the added bonus of more abuse."

The man's chest twitched under Sam's left-handed grasp, the promise of more pain not a nice thought.

"H-he was about m-my length, lanky th-though, almost all bone...He had a short beard and short hair, Irish-red! That's all I remember, I swear! We never exchanged names or details!"

Sam regarded the man for but a second, before saying simply, "Thank you, but I hope you understand that I cannot have anybody threatening Madam Lutece, her mind is too valuable." He wrenched the man backwards, his head sharply colliding with the cabinet, a line of blood trailing behind his head as his body slumped.

* * *

Her breaths were haggard after the men shuffled her into the main experiment chambers, their eyes were wild, looking for other occupants. Where were the Founders and their police? Were there none observing her property, as they usually did? The coincidence was rather impeccable, she admitted sarcastically.

"Turn on your machines and give us the riches we seek, woman." The derision in his tone was not lost on her, a stinging reminder of how hard she had to work to reach her station, and how careful she had to tread, lest she lose her life.

"I assure you, sir, that the process takes much longer than just activating some machine and having everything delivered to you immediately. It would take hours, maybe days to find what you seek. This isn't some magical portal to-"

The man snapped at her, ""Do what you must, scientist! I do not care how, but we will have what we want!"

She felt panic well up in her at the man's aggressiveness, there were no rapiers or firearms near for her to use. This was a place of science, not wish-fulfillment and impeccable timing.

"I cannot just hurry a process like this. It could cause instability; the machine is not meant to run in anything less than ideal conditions!"

The man's reply was cut off by movement near the open door. Rosalind's eyes looked to the open entrance, a silhouette caused by the light from the hallway draping a new man in an eerie shadow, masking his face, although she saw a dark streak spread over his pale skin...was that blood?

The dark figure hissed something, a red-toothed grin leading his arms up. She barely had any time to process the situation before two of her captors were felled, a spray of blood kicked up from their injuries.

Four shots resounded and two more men fell, the last man, the one confronting her, joined them on the floor soon after, clutching his leg. The new man slowly moved forward, his firearm placed in its holster, a dark frown marring his face. Two spots on his suit were quickly darkening the black fabric, he didn't seem to mind, or realize the wounds though; simply grabbing the man by the hair and moving back towards the door.

"Stay there, I will return shortly to ensure no harm has befallen you."

What? She was quivering in terror; this man had just killed four men...she noticed the other two bodies through his route. Six men then; he had killed six men, and seemed barely bothered by it. He was concerned for her health? A lot of blood on his face had clearly been his own, trails moving from his nostrils. Perhaps one of them had gotten in a lucky shot, the two bullet wounds notwithstanding.

He disappeared into the corridor, a loud thud sounding before a slap reverberated through the air. Rosalind moved quickly, gathering one of the offenders' pistols, before moving into the hallway, crouching against the stairs. A loud crack filled the air, causing her to ready her pistol, glancing over the steps at her savior looking forlornly at the dead man in front of him. A loud sigh and a stifled sob escaped the man, his hands clutching his head, muttering about his sanity and humanity.

As he turned back and rounded the steps, he stopped in his tracks at the pistol pointed at his head. The hallway's lights illuminated his face this time. It was sharp, a marble-like smoothness to it, he was rather handsome, even with blood covering him. His eyes, at first dark and sorrowful, shifted to surprised anger at the gun barrel in his face, before softening as they traced the arm to its owner's face. He seemed to register familiarity, a pained look, a mix of adoration, love, and sorrow slid onto his face.

"Rosalind Lutece." The name was barely a statement, but it made Rosalind's ears burn, heat climbed up her neck.

"I find myself wondering exactly how you seem so familiar with my name."

The man shifted uncomfortably, his bloodied boots much more interesting than her face all of a sudden. He hadn't even regarded the pistol mere inches from his head. His demeanor surprised her, he had just brutally murdered seven people, three of them without a firearm, and he was this awkward now? What?

"It is a story I myself do not yet quite understand...I used to work for you, the only apprentice you had ever actually had for more than a month. I helped you launch Columbia almost two years earlier than you estimated you would, some of my inputs seemingly haven given you revelations...of sorts."

She had lowered her weapon by now, not releasing it quite yet. "Pardon?"

"We...we got along exceptionally well, at times almost pursuing...it does not matter. I had, in a fit of lethargy, and recklessness, miscalculated outputs for new generators we had installed, they were almost threefold more powerful than the ones you are now using. When we started our machine for an experiment, everything went white. I... I caused your death, and in the eternal abyss that was my death, I had wished for another chance, to...to repay a debt, I guess."

Rosalind snorted, getting the attention of the stranger, who had a small smile on his face. Why was he smiling?

"'It is quantum mechanics, not magical wish-fulfillment.' One of your more infamous lines. I remember that."

The thought crossed her mind, that, maybe, he was telling her the truth. The thought honestly brought her pause. Why, and maybe more importantly, how? She glanced back at the man, now looking at the bodies in the entrance.

"You're bleeding." He looked back to her, his eyes softening again as they met hers. He seemed so familiar with her, it nearly made her cry. Loneliness seemed to be her curse, few others even able to discuss the depths of basic sciences with her. She had already made plans for her 'sibling', Robert, to come to 'her' Columbia, but this...this had maybe just made things better, at least until Robert could be fetched.

The pistol dropped with a clunk, drawing his eyes back to her. "You're bleeding." She repeated.

He took this as a chance to approach her. "I have more pressing matters." His gentle hands travelling up and down her visible arms made her gasp in surprise. "Did I hurt you?" A slightly pained look in his eyes.

"N-No, I was just not expecting...your hands...to be so soft." He gave her a slight smile, his hands going to her other arm. Why was she so flustered? She was always the one on control, and now this man was turning her into a flustered mess; teenage memories of romance novels fluttered by her eyes.

As his hands retreated, she felt herself almost missing the touch. "I need to clean up. If you would excuse me, momentarily."

She looked at him, confusion being a tad of an understatement. "C-Clean?"

"Yes," he moved passed the stairs, "I don't think it wise to leave bodies and blood around, a clear invitation for the Founders and their hounds to snoop around, I know you have quite the dislike for them digging through your labs; you do so detest their uncaring disruption of your space." He reached a slightly hidden door below the steps, opening it and retrieving a mop and a bucket, "In addition to that, dried blood is for the most part harder to clean."

Rosalind found herself confirming his story. He knew where the door was to below the building, where some of the cleaning supplies were stored, he knew about her hatred of the Founder brutes in her labs, and he was still bleeding. She struggled to find words as the revelation chimed in her mind, simply repeating herself once more. "You're bleeding."

"I know, Rosalind. I'll patch myself up when I'm done. Would you maybe go attend to the receptionist? She seemed rather frightened when I spoke with her." She did not like his insistence to not be healed, he had a layer of sweat forming on his brow, in obvious pain now that the commotion was finished. She nodded, moving into the reception area as he disappeared into the Contraption's chambers, quickly identifying her receptionist, Jane Orson, trembling in a corner.

When crouching next to her did not illicit a response, she cleared her throat, the young girl's eyes turning to her; unfocused and red. "Miss Orson, are you quite alright?"

The young girl stared off into space once more, "Th-there were...loud bangs...and I expected the worst."

Placing a hand on the girl's shoulder, she forced the girl to look into her eyes. "Miss Orson, the problem has been dealt with. Why don't you go home now? Return next Monday, I shall notify anybody who asks that we are closed."

The young girl's eyes seemed to focus slightly more with every word after 'Return...', finally looking back to Rosalind. "A-are you sure, Madam Lutece?"

Rosalind nodded her assent, before standing up and offering the young girl a hand. "I will have the place cleaned, do not burden yourself. Collect your things and I shall escort you to the door."

Jane nodded, absently taking Rosalind's hand, before being hefted onto her feet. Looking down, she loudly said, "My dress is ruined! Barbarians." An angered 'humph' brought a small smile to Rosalind's face as Jane nearly stomped to the desk, grabbing her coat and scattered handbag, its contents violently gathered and stored. She deflated before turning around to Rosalind, "I do not know if I want to leave my desk in such a state...oh and the books! Madam Lutece, I cannot leave the place like this."

She raised an eyebrow and started for the door, "Do not fret Miss Orson, I have help. Get some rest, and good food. I will see you next Monday, Jane." She held the door open, her words held a sense of finality.

Jane hurried towards the door, greeting Rosalind as she passed, disappearing into the crowds that had picked up again. The door closed, Rosalind sighed, and turned the knobs of the various locks; five in total. An 'unladylike' snort escaped her, her mother- and Madam's lessons forgotten for a moment as she reviewed the mess. It really wasn't that bad, in actual fact. A few books were thrown around, and some files were strewn about, not even in disarray either, the pages strewn out in clear lines or curves.

Almost everything she saw was among those levels, no real consequences, only inconveniences. The things of consequence, however, were through the doors at the back of the room. Seven bodies, and a man that caused them...A man from an apparent different dimension. How intriguing.

She would leave this area for tomorrow at least, she had larger worries. Opening the doors that had been closed since she left the hallway, she was surprised to find...nothing. There was no blood, no bodies, nothing. She was thankful for the absence of bodies, she had attempted her best to avoid seeing the gore. Gored animals were one thing, when she was hunting, or experimenting, but gored humans were another matter entirely, excluding the murder and brain matter.

She entered the Contraption's chamber, noting a distinct lack of bodies, and blood. Two bullet casings lying around drew her attention, she gathered them, and moved towards the stairs, no blood anywhere she looked. As she ascended the stairs, she noticed the bathroom door to the left of the stairs was slightly ajar. As she approached and opened the door, her breath stuck in her throat, her visitor had removed all of the clothing from his upper body, blood dripping off them as they hung over the edge of the bath, blood running in rivulets down his stomach, through haphazardly placed gauze and bandages. He was extremely pale, and unbalanced, sweat pouring from his brow. He looked terrible...ruggedly handsome maybe, but terrible.

She informed him as such, receiving a shaky smirk in return, before he nearly collapsed. She was quickly by his side, hoisting a surprisingly heavy arm over her shoulder, hoping he didn't have much need of her support, she never was one for weighty exercise. "How much have you bled?". He grunted, giving her a slightly spacey "Too much."

The reply worried her, as she dragged him through a door set behind the stairs, across from this one, his clothes forgotten, his holsters still on his person. They came into a new stairway, ascending it as fast as the man's weakened state would allow, reaching the top quickly, and moving to a room above the bathroom; her kitchen. Pushing the door in front of them open, she quickly placed him on the kitchen island; books, food, and utensils were scattered quickly as she swiped an arm over it. A hiss escaped his lips at the cold surface, before she went to one of the cupboards, returning with a leather pouch filled with surgical utensils, a small metal pan, and a bottle of exceptional whiskey.

He took the bottle without complaint, drinking damn-near half of it in a few swigs, a small smile formed on his lips as she removed the bottle, his eyes meeting hers. The soft expression confused her once more. Bullet wounds, more than a fair share of whiskey, and he's still conscious enough to look at her as if she were an old friend, if nothing else. A syringe filled with morphine found its way into his arm, numbing the pain further, before he was handed a leather belt to bite down on, confirming his theory of pain to come.

As she inserted a long pair of pliers into the first wound, he nearly bit through the belt, the pain hitting him in a suffocating wave. A metallic clink, with a slight absence of pain, signaled the first projectile was removed. More pain followed soon after, another clink sounding after that. She was a surprisingly good surgeon, all other qualifications considered. She had finished stitching him when she realized he had passed out; his wounds still needed to be dressed, and she doubted she was going to be able to single-handedly pull his torso up. A light smack to his face roused him slightly, a grunt following his eyes seeing her.

"You need to sit up so that I may dress your wounds, I'm sure you understand the risk of infections."

A tired nod before he sluggishly sat up, reminding her of a Fink automaton with a leak in its pneumatic system. Her hands worked quickly in applying gauze, bandages, and a tight wrapping to his mid-section, his head hanging forward as she finished. He was exhausted, barely gripping onto consciousness.

She pulled his legs off of the table, his shirt, vest, and jacket forgotten, as she placed an arm over her shoulder, directing him out of the room.

"'M so ssssorry, M'dam Lutece, I di'n't mean to be shot."

She smirked at his slurred words, sincerity burning in their obviousness.

"I'm sure you didn't," She directed them into the door on their left, a guest bedroom, right above hers. "Here's a bed, I will return shortly with something that should help with the internal damage, try to stay conscious."

She placed him on the bed, his weary eyes taking in the room, before smiling, "'S my room."

She left quickly, fearing he'd be asleep before she returned. Headed for a desk in the Contraption's chambers, its drawer contained a small amount of an experiment she had been working on, an infusion that could heal near any bodily damages. This was her first successful batch from two years of passively working on it, other projects being more important or necessary. This was as good a test, or cause, to use it as any, she supposed.

When she arrived back in the room, she saw the man looking into a mirror on the room's dresser, to the right of the bed, still seated on it. He looked confused and scared as he took his person in. Likely never meaning to be shot, or to be covered in blood. As his eyes traveled to the open door, she realized they looked glazed over, a multitude of emotions playing behind them. She approached him cautiously, almost afraid he might lash out at her, another target in his dazed state, but he never shifted, a warm look crossing his features as she approached.

Holding out the vial, she offered it to him, his eyes barely glancing at it before he had pulled out the stopper and downed the contents; he seemed to trust her more than logically reasonable, and she had only known him for less than thirty minutes. As the infusion was being absorbed into his bloodstream, a wave of goosebumps emanated from his spine, a slight shiver accompanying it. He smiled at her again, his words still slightly slurred.

"Feel better already. Thank you kindly, Madam Lutece. Do you have any questions, before Morpheus claims me?"

A thousand questions bubbled to the forefront of her mind as he said this. She wanted to ask so many, but decided just one was acceptable for now.

"You seem rather attached to me, Mister...?"

It had sounded quite a bit more intelligent in her head, if she were admitting it, but she never even blinked, waiting for his answer.

"I _am_ rather attached to you, Madam Lutece...In certain aspects in anyway. My name is Samuel Wilson. I apologize f'r my bad manners."

She found herself unnecessarily frustrated with the man...Samuel, mostly just at his insistence of continuously apologizing for things he had no control over.

"You seem to be suffering from guilt."

A laugh racked Sam's body, quickly interrupted by a wince and a hand on his injuries, before he nodded. "I seem to be, thank you Doctor Lutece. Any other brilliant observations?"

She smirked at his sarcasm. It was rare in this City in The Clouds. Most females regarding themselves above it, thus rarely understanding it, and males thinking themselves too chivalrous to reply in measure, or reacting poorly, thinking she 'overstepped her gender's station'. Ugh, the boars.

"Yes, your injuries do require your rest, so maybe it best that you succumb to slumber."

As he beckoned her closer, Rosalind wondered exactly why she had complied so easily, as he pushed his torso upright.

"I need help getting my holsters off, please."

Her nod was somewhat subdued, but his arm stretched out none the less, waiting for her to drag the shoulder band off. She stepped closer and grabbed the band slightly more harshly than she had intended to, but he said nothing, merely letting her guide his arm through. The other side fell of its own accord once his arm was freed, he shifted on his hands, dragging the holsters and band out from underneath him, holding it weakly up.

Rosalind had been too focused on the holsters to observe much else, the large revolver, the line of loaders, spare cartridges on every inch that can be hidden. Another fastener, one that would go over one's midsection, gave two sheaths mapped to his lower back extra support, she assumed it was for movement's sake.

As she leaned forward and took the heavy array of bands and equipment, a warm breath blew into the crook of her neck, sending a wave of goosebumps down her spine. She hadn't observed where his head was, and now she was almost too paralyzed to move away, she had never found herself in a situation quite like this. A pair of lips pressed against her neck did, however, ruse her exceptionally quickly, jumping back.

"Mister Wilson!"

Sam seemed confused for a moment, before looking abashed, red flaring through his neck to his hairline, his bed suddenly immensely interesting.

"I-I apologize. I don't drink often. Nor do I get shot often. I apologize, Madam Lutece."

Rosalind placed his holsters on a chair against the door's wall, thanking the layout for allowing her to hide her crimson face.

"Apology accepted, Mister Wilson. I recommend you get some sleep."

As the door closed, she leaned against an adjoining wall, looking out of the windows on the opposite wall. It was barely noon, and she had had an excessively busy day so far. Perhaps she was destined for some rest as well.

* * *

 **A/N: So you got through it, I hope you enjoyed it. Now, I have good news, and bad news. The good news is, if you enjoyed this, there is a second chapter. The bad news, however, is that it's terrible. I've spent some time reviewing and editing so far, and it might be some time until I find it acceptable; so maybe follow the story if you'd like to be notified when it's up.**

 **Have a good one.**


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